


(every single time) make a compromise

by kitseybarbours



Series: coming down [2]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Canon Dialogue, Character Study, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-17 09:14:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5863321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitseybarbours/pseuds/kitseybarbours
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You have never liked not knowing where you stand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(every single time) make a compromise

*

You feared him, at first. 

Or if not _him,_ you feared disruption, imbalance: change. Life in the First Order, life on Starkiller —  _your_ life, the life you have chosen and love — is precise, controlled, a mathematical formula; and Kylo Ren was an unknown variable. He was, you were told, the master of the Knights of Ren: a shadowy order like to the fabled Jedi Knights of old — but darker, stronger, more skilled and dangerous in the ways of the so-called _Force_. You were suspicious at once: you place no trust in that which you cannot see.

He was sent to your ship and was to be treated as your equal. You had no intention of doing so. You have worked all your life for your place — for what you see as the fulfilment of your destiny — and you would never be so foolish as to give it up, relinquish your authority to a supposed _equal;_ for you have none, in the Order or anywhere else.

All the same, you feared him: mistrusted his rumoured powers; worried, privately, that he could best you, _would_ best you, and would change everything.

But you know him now, and you fear him no longer.

You see him now for what he is: a vulnerable child, unstable and afraid. It was all too easy to take advantage of his weakness. You brought him to your bed, you let him know where he stood; and now you are in control again and you are not afraid anymore.

*

He has his uses.

His _skills_ are invaluable for torture, even you must admit it. He has never failed to extract required information from a prisoner — at least, not until the Resistance pilot Poe Dameron; but then, even the best systems have flaws. It is a setback, but one that you discount; you will work around it — but Ren becomes fixated. He becomes obsessed with finding the droid, the BB unit supposedly containing a map to the famed Jedi Knight Luke Skywalker.

“Is he not a myth?” you ask him, when he tells you of his new-hatched scheme to track down this map and find Skywalker himself. “You are wasting your time — and mine,” you say pointedly.

“He’s not a myth,” Kylo Ren retorts, and he sounds hurt. “The Jedi were real. They _are_ real. And I must be the one to find Skywalker.”

You sigh; you are losing interest. You didn’t call him here to listen to him whine. “Lie back. You tire me.”

He has his uses.

*

You are awoken late in the night by the frantic trilling of your comlink’s emergency alert. You fumble for it in the dark, squint at the screen, and learn immediately that the rebel pilot has escaped in a stolen TIE fighter.

You are fully awake, and furious, at once: you scramble out of bed and dress quickly in your uniform, straightening your disheveled hair as you stalk through the base to the bridge. You are already planning punishments for whichever incompetent officers allowed this to happen.

Captain Phasma meets you halfway, falling into stride next to you. “What happened?” you snap.

“It would appear the prisoner did not break out of his cell, but was removed from it by a trooper,” Phasma informs you smoothly, her voice betraying no trace of alarm or irritation. “I’ll run through the database once we arrive at the bridge; see if I can find a noncompliant,” she tells you, unflappable, attuned to you as always: the perfect second-in-command.

You nod. “Good. Thank you.”

By the time you get there the hangar is already in chaos. Phasma goes at once to the holoscreens on the wall and starts paging through the troopers’ data, and you approach the console, where a harried Lieutenant Mitaka is attempting to control the catastrophe unfolding below.

From the viewports you see troopers firing at a TIE fighter, which is trying to break free of the heavy chains keeping it tethered in the bay; as you watch, it fires back, and the console room on that floor is destroyed. You wince: _an inconvenience, and one that I will have to answer for._ Your anger, momentarily soothed by Phasma’s calm efficiency, is returning in full force.

“Sir, they’ve taken out our turbo lasers,” a young technician informs you.

“Engage the ventral cannons,” you order Mitaka at the console.

He obeys at once: “Bringing them online.”

“General Hux,” comes Kylo Ren’s distorted voice from behind you, controlled and even despite the mask. You start, and turn to face him. “Is it the Resistance pilot?” he asks.

“Yes,” you reply coolly. You keep your face and voice level, as if mere hours ago he had not been sprawled out beneath you, his hair spilling like ink across the pillow as he arched his hips to meet yours — “And he had help. One of our own.” You nod to Captain Phasma. “We’re checking the registers to see which stormtrooper it was.”

To your surprise, Ren shakes his head. “You don’t need to. It’s FN-2187,” he says. “The one from the village.”

You are taken aback, and in your momentarily bewilderment you don’t respond. The second part of his declaration means nothing to you; but clearly he knows something you don’t — no doubt due somehow to his _powers —_ and this makes you uneasy. You can’t see his face but you can feel him watching you, quietly satisfied at making you squirm. Your lip curls.

“Thank you,” you say stiffly.

Kylo Ren nods curtly. And then he turns on his heel and is gone, in a theatrical swirl of black cape. You are exasperated beyond belief.

“Ventral cannons hot,” Mitaka reports.

“Fire,” you command.

*

You pace restlessly from console to console as the technicians and officers attempt to regain control of the disastrous situation. The hangar below is completely destroyed: you despair to think of the cost of repairs, the need for replacement personnel… _and somehow Snoke will find a way to blame me for all this._

Your jaw clenches. You feel waves of throbbing pain behind your left temple, and you grit your teeth. To distract yourself you begin to plan for what you will do when the stolen ship is taken down, and as you do you can breathe again; you feel in control again. _The pilot must be destroyed; he has proved dangerous as well as useless. And the trooper, too: re-education is too good for a traitor. We can’t risk the threat of rebellion._

“Sir?” says Chief Petty Officer Unamo, taking you out of your thoughts. “They’ve been hit.”

You feel relief, but don’t give in to it yet: “Destroyed?” you ask crisply.

Unamo shakes her head. “Disabled. The fighter is projected to crash somewhere in the Goazon Badlands.” She points to the live feed on the holoscreen.

You come to a realisation: “They were going back for the droid,” you say aloud; and then you watch as the fighter plummets in a blast of smoke and fire. It hits the desert planet’s surface, far below, and crashes sickeningly: _impossible to survive that._

But just in case: “Send a squad to the wreckage,” you order.

“Yes, sir.”

Unamo speaks rapidly into her headset and passes the order onward.

You smile. The pain in your head seems to lessen.

“Let this serve as a reminder that insubordination will _not_ be tolerated. Understood?” you ask languidly of the room at large, a deadly undercurrent darkening your tone.

“Yes, sir.”

*****

The next day you are brutal with your troops, pushing them harder in drills, disciplining them more harshly. The news of last night’s escape has already made its way through their ranks, but you tell them the story again, remind them that disobedience is treason and will be treated as such.

“The First Order has no place for traitors,” you cry out, your boots ringing on the dark floors as you pace between the lines of soldiers. Your anger fuels you, calms you, keeps you functioning. A migraine headache claws at your brain, but you shout louder as if to drown out the pain:

 “You obey, or you die. Make your choice.”

You vent the last of your rage on Kylo, that night, and you leave him marked with reminders of your strength; and then you go, for suddenly you can’t stand to look at him.

“You’ll be gone when I come back,” you order; and he is.

 _The balance is restored._ You still can’t relax.

*

Phasma’s search of trooper records turned up nothing on FN-2187. He was an ordinary stormtrooper, displaying no serious signs of nonconformity or, indeed, anything of note: human male, early twenties, dark skin and heavy build. His psychological profile is equally, frustratingly unremarkable. You grit your teeth: _how could this one have slipped through the cracks?_

It comes as no surprise when you and Ren are summoned to Snoke, to debrief on (or, rather, genuflect and beg forgiveness for) the matter of the prisoner’s escape. Just as expected, Snoke proceeds to give you a dramatic and ominously-worded telling-off, booming words like _disgrace_ and _ashamed of yourself._ Despite your inherent disregard for the Supreme Leader’s authority —  _I won’t answer to a hologram —_ the reprimand chafes; and Ren’s insolence doesn’t help.

“Perhaps Supreme Leader Snoke should consider using a clone army,” he suggests mockingly as you leave the assembly room. You flare up at him, remind him of your soldiers’ training, second-to-none in the galaxy —

“Then they should have no problem recovering the droid,” he interrupts you. He is wearing his preposterous mask, so you can’t see his face; but you suspect his heavy features are contorted in a smirk. “Unharmed.”

“Careful, Ren.” You turn abruptly to face him and remind him, once again, where he stands on this ship; that his _personal interests_ should not be allowed to take precedence over orders from his superiors.

At this, he turns what appears to be an inquisitive gaze on you, and his eyes, even from behind the mask, bore into yours: the back of your neck begins to prickle. You realise that your choice of words was, perhaps, unwise; you think again of his long, lanky form splayed loose over your sheets, the moles and freckles adorning his back like a spray of distant stars: your own _personal interests,_ whether you like it or not. You shift, uneasy, and say nothing.

“I want that map,” he tells you. “And for your sake I suggest you get it.”

He whirls and goes, leaving you shaken. For the first time, his threat makes you shiver.

*

You get drunk at an officers’ banquet because you want to feel numb. Since the escape of the pilot you have been tormented with migraine headaches, even worse than usual; you don’t sleep well, you don’t want to eat, and dealing with Kylo Ren’s caprices does not improve matters. He is reckless, unstable; his temper tantrums are frequent and costly, and you live in perpetual anticipation of him seriously hurting himself — which he is fully capable of doing, if your various singed and Force-bruised junior officers are any indication.

The very fact that he can get so far under your skin irks you to no end: for this shows that, no matter how you treat him, no matter what you tell yourself, you do truly care for him. And maybe you are trying to dispel this disturbing fact when you retire to your chambers early (before you can embarrass yourself) and then, without thinking, call him to you.

He arrives and looks wary: he can sense that something is different, tonight. You invite him to sit; you pour Corellian brandy for him and yourself, and he drinks, watching you.

“My father was a soldier,” you say without preamble. “He was a commandant.” Absently, distantly, you tell Kylo Ren of your father’s death at Rebel hands, when you were too young to remember anything more of him than his distaste toward you and your mother. “He never liked me much.”

Kylo speaks up, made bold by the liquor —  _surely that, too, is against his creed?_   “And yet here you are, carrying out his dreams.” He nods at your general’s stripes. “He’d be proud.” His voice carries the slightest hint of mocking, but too — admiration.

“Not his dreams. My destiny.” The words are out before you can think.

He surveys your face curiously, his large dark eyes depthless and unreadable. “Ruling the galaxy?” he asks, poking fun. You flush and glare at him.

“Yes. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

He looks at you for a moment longer: studying, searching, cataloguing. You wait, your mind hazy, the throbbing pain in your temples finally dulled; you wonder what he is looking for, what he is finding — or not — in your face.

“I know,” he murmurs at last. There is something like sadness in his eyes when his lips come down to meet yours.

*

“We shall destroy the government that supports the Resistance: the Republic. Without their friends to protect them, the Resistance will be vulnerable, and we will stop them before they reach Skywalker,” you promise Snoke in the assembly room.

The enormous holographic figure of Snoke nods down at you, his hideously disfigured features twisting in to some semblance of a smile. “Go, General. Oversee the necessary preparations.”

Kylo, at your side, shoots you a look of what, if not for the mask, you think would be approbation. You swallow: you would be lying if you said that his insistence on finding the supposed _map_ hadn’t influenced your planning, and he knows it.

You bow fractionally lower than you believe Snoke deserves. “Thank you.” You hurry down the long hall in the dark echoing chamber, and you feel Ren’s eyes on your back. As the doors slide shut behind you, you hear Snoke begin to speak again; for of course you, a mere mortal lacking _powers_ of your own, are unworthy of overhearing any aspect of the training of Snoke’s prized pupil, Kylo Ren. Your mouth twists in distaste: _Smoke and mirrors, mind games._

You have seen what Ren’s powers can do to prisoners; you have even felt, sometimes, that his gaze when it meets yours penetrates into your mind: not deeply, not fully; merely poking around the surface. A warmth, like pins and needles; an intrusion. He has never gone further. He has never taken anything from you; of this you are sure. He knows that there are certain lines even he cannot cross: that you will not allow him to cross. In this, at least, he respects you.

And yet you still cannot bring yourself to believe in a power, a _Force,_ holding good and evil, dark and light together; keeping balance in the cosmos. To you, a man’s highest authority is himself; it is up to him to elevate himself above others, if he so desires. There is no being, no entity, which can do this for him. The idea of such an energy conferring status — conferring skills, mysterious powers — upon any mortal being is ridiculous, to you — but, in all truth, it frightens you, too.

The ever-present struggle between the dark and the light which is the core tenet of his religion is nowhere more apparent than in Kylo Ren himself. You succeed in taming his volatile nature sometimes, yes; but you know that, at his core, he is poised to self-destruct at any moment. There is a battle waging within him: there are forces beyond either of your control fighting to overtake him, from the inside and out. He cannot win, one way or another. It will end in his destruction, this you know for certain; and increasingly, you feel, in your own as well.

*

“Today is the end of the Republic,” you cry out to your troops. “The end of a regime that acquiesces to disorder!” Every person under your command is here, assembled in immaculate formation in front of you. You survey them with fierce pride as you continue your speech, your voice amplified and echoing in the freezing air.

“At this very moment, in a system far from here, the New Republic lies to the galaxy while secretly supporting the treachery of the loathsome Resistance,” you announce, your mouth twisting in distaste. “This fierce machine which you have built, upon which we stand, will bring an end to the Senate — to their cherished fleet!” Your voice swells with fervour and satisfaction: you know that your destiny is being realised at last. _This is what I have worked for all my life._

“All remaining systems will bow to the First Order, and will remember this as the last day of the Republic!”

Your final words are met with a perfectly synchronised salute from the troops. On your shouted order — “Fire!” — the weapon is primed: the ground hums and shakes, the sky is lit red as the weapon sucks the power from a sun. You feel tears of pride prick your eyes, and you smile.

The troops give a victorious roar as the weapon fires. You listen as an entire system is wiped out, and you know that your lifetime of work has been worth it.

There is a commotion behind you: “General! Sir!” You turn, irritated, to find an anxious officer at your side.

“Sir, it’s Kylo Ren,” she tells you. “He’s collapsed.”

*

You bring him to his quarters, dismiss the trooper who helped you carry him: “Leave us.” When he wakes, groggy, you tell him briefly what happened, not fully understanding it yourself. You search through a medkit for a rehydrating solution, and then shuck your gloves and roll up his sleeve to inject him. You begin automatically to bandage the puncture in the crook of his forearm: you observe that it is already beginning to bruise, just as you _(better than anyone)_ knew it would.

He murmurs something about having _felt them,_ and you stop.

“What?”

“The people in the Hosnian System,” Kylo explains. “I felt their pain.”

You are stunned, and say nothing.

He carries on, babbling recklessly, saying that he _felt their terror, was there with them —_

You interrupt him when you can take no more of it. _Surely he is delirious; surely such a thing cannot be._

“Impossible. Completely impossible.”

He reminds you quietly that you, unlike him, are not _Force-sensitive,_ as he calls it; as if you did not know this already, as if he and Snoke did not look down on you because of it!

“Maybe not, but I know enough of your _religion_ to know that that is not _possible,”_ you spit. You glare at him, furious, and you hardly know what you are saying when you add: “Not on the dark side, at least.”

You think nothing of your words; you are speaking only in anger, as you so often do when it comes to Kylo Ren. But this time, you seem to have struck a chord; for Kylo stares at you now in a blank kind of horror.

You frown almost imperceptibly. _What does this mean to him?_ you wonder. _What is it that he fears?_

“There is no light in me,” he whispers, sounding like a terrified child —  _and is that not just what he is?_   “Not anymore. There can’t be.”

“Can’t there?” you ask, and you relish the fear that flickers in his eyes.

*

You realise, over the next few days, that you were mistaken in taunting him the other night. You have, apparently, unearthed  _(reawakened?)_ in Kylo a visceral — and perhaps not unfounded — fear: the fear that the so-called _light side_ is still strong in him, and that he, for reasons known only to himself, is not strong enough to master it.

His childish fits of destruction become even more frequent, now; he nearly strangles Lieutenant Mitaka, demolishing an entire bank of computers along the way. You shoot a deadly glare at Ren when Mitaka makes his trembling report, and you grit your teeth against the vicious headache you feel beginning. _He is taking years off my life —_ and the worst part is, this time you know it’s your fault.

When he begs you to be allowed to torture the girl from Jakku, you think at once to give in, in the hopes that it’ll put him right again: _he’ll get this out of his system and go back to being a thorn, not a dagger, in my side._ But just as you are about to say yes, you take in fully Ren’s appearance. He looks a sight: his mask is off, for one, and you see his eyes are bloodshot; you wonder if he’s been sleeping, and doubt it. He tugs fiercely at his thick dark hair, his long fingers working compulsively through it, as if he’s been programmed to give himself pain.

 _Is it wise to let him torture the girl?_ In his current state, he seems more likely to kill her. She might be valuable to the Order: _is it worth the risk?_

Ren’s eyes plead with you. He looks deranged, unhinged, and you think suddenly that it is better to risk him killing the girl than killing himself.

You grant him permission. His relief is palpable; he doesn’t thank you.

*

Almost as soon as you finish your patrol shift that night you receive a call on your comlink. You frown, hoping immediately and desperately that the scavenger girl has not mounted an escape like her predecessor. You take out your comm in extreme trepidation and are surprised to see that the name on the viewscreen is Kylo Ren’s.

“Hux,” you answer, cautious.

“You’ve finished for the night?” comes Ren’s immediate response. He speaks quickly, urgently, and you begin to worry: _What’s he done now?_

“Yes,” you reply warily. “Why?”

“Come to my quarters as soon as you can.” Ren’s tone edges dangerously close to pleading — and then he disconnects the call. You frown at your comlink, completely thrown; and then you turn back the way you came and you go to him.

He accosts you as soon as you get there, demanding if you “meant what you said” about Hosnian Prime, about empathy, the dark side — he babbles incoherently, pouring out a flood of worries and fears that you don’t know how he expects you to soothe.

_Did I really bring this on, with just a few careless words? He is more fragile than I’d thought._

You grow irritated almost at once; you’d been looking forward to going back to your chambers and falling at once into sleep, escaping for just a few hours the stress of your post and of dealing with the very man who is now begging you for answers.

“What if some light is still inside me?” Kylo Ren asks you, his voice broken and fearful.

In that moment you pity him. But no, pity is not the right word: you _empathise_ with him. All of a sudden, you wish you _could_ help him; you wish you could offer something to him, some comfort; something more than whatever this is that you two have made for yourselves.

“How can there be?” you ask of him, hoping to make him think, calm him down with logic; though you think you know that in his world, his life of dark and light and his own personal limbo in-between, such things as logic don’t seem to apply. You remind him of Snoke, of his training: “You wouldn’t have made any progress if…if your fears were true,” you say clumsily.

“But _what if?”_ he demands.

“Is that the only reason you called me here?’ you snap, finally at the end of your rope. You have —  _tried,_ at least, and Kylo is being foolish. “So you could vent your childish fears of not being _good enough?”_

And now he springs at you and kisses you hard, pulling you roughly to the bed, dragging you down beneath him. He bites your lip and you taste blood in your mouth: _“Kylo,”_ you growl, and you kiss him back brutally. Your hands move to his hair, find purchase there and pull; he gives a strangled moan and you feel yourself responding, sinking in to this familiar vicious routine.

Then suddenly he pulls back from you. “ _What?”_ you grit out in exasperation.

“Did you feel that?” he asks bluntly.

“Feel _what?”_

He describes glee, exhilaration. You have no idea what he means. “No.”

He stands and starts pacing the room, murmuring wildly to himself, his long hair tangled about his face like a madman’s. You stare at him, bewildered — and worse, wanting him now, growing impatient.

“The girl,” he says suddenly. “She’s escaped.”

You blink, not understanding at first; and then, as comprehension dawns, a sort of hysteria descends over you; for is this not just what you’d feared, when you received Ren’s call earlier?   _It’s as if I called it into being._ For a moment you fight the wild urge to laugh aloud.

As to how Ren knows of the escape — it must be somehow related to the Force. For once, you are grateful for rather than vexed by this show of his powers; but all the same you take a deep steadying breath and resign yourself to another sleepless night, another situation seemingly entirely beyond your control. As if on cue, a gentle throbbing pain begins behind your eyes. You dig your fingernails into your palms.

“Thank you,” you tell Ren, your voice sounding mad even in your own ears, as you straighten your clothes and hair and make to leave. “You’ve been very helpful.”

*

Everything happens very quickly after that.

The matter of the girl is relegated to the back of your mind when the Resistance sends you an unwitting boon in the form of a reconnaissance ship. You have it tracked immediately and soon find out where it’s headed: “D’Qar,” you announce. “Set a course at once.”

 _This is the end for them_ , you think. _They can’t win._

Everything comes together perfectly. Your troops, your fleet, your base are in harmony, the best-oiled and most terrifying machine the galaxy has ever seen. Here, at last, will come the end of the Republic: will come your day of triumph. You will have an empire. You will have the galaxy.

You are, ultimately, indebted to Ren for this. You recall his days of tortured thinking, his pent-up fear and rage coursing out in your chambers the night of the girl’s escape; you remember the terror in his eyes, and for the first time you are sorry.

You try to let him know. When he comes to you tonight you are careful with him: you kiss him softly, for once; you stroke his hair instead of pulling. You are gentle — you dare not think _loving —_ and you surprise even yourself. You hope he understands that you are grateful to him, that you wish for his own sake that things were easier for him — for the both of you.

He cries out your name, and automatically you clap a hand over his mouth: you are risking both your positions already; you must be so careful. But something in his eyes, when he opens them and fixes yours, makes you regret it.

“Stay, if you’d like,” you offer after. You don’t know if it’s an apology.

You have wished it before. You keep your quarters tomblike-cold, you are not one for creature comforts; but you sleep curled tight to yourself like a child, never feeling wholly warm: longing sometimes for someone, some warmth. You suspect that Ren would stay, if only you ever asked him; you know he would hold you, cover you, until the ice in your veins began to thaw. But you have not asked: not until now. You have never been brave or foolish enough.

But now he refuses. He shakes his dark head and he dresses and goes; and you lie silent and chilled, the sweat on your skin beginning to dry, and you remind yourself that you should not be surprised.

*

And then everything goes wrong.

Your base is invaded, your soldiers take flight. Resistance fighters swarm the ship, the system, and your troops desert you — desert the Order — just when they are needed most. You look around you in desperation and you cry to them to _fight,_ damn it, fight for the Order, their home and their cause — but for the first time they don’t listen.

 _You obey or you die._ Their choice has been made.

And then Ren disappears. You saw him, once, briefly: saw him order one of the few remaining squadrons to follow him; heard him shouting “Find them!” — presumably the girl and the trooper FN-2187, returned to the base to finish what they started. _At least Ren is pulling his weight, for once,_ you think despondently; but then he too is gone. _Keep him safe,_ you ask suddenly, silently: of who? Of what? Even now you know nothing is listening.

The base begins to tremble and shake as the planet starts slowly collapsing. You race to the assembly room, find Snoke’s hologram still steady amongst the chaos; he orders you to find Ren and bring him to him. You obey, because you feel you will go insane, you will lose control completely if you do not have something to _do:_ orders to follow and fulfil instead of to give and have ignored.

You find a few faithful troopers remaining. (Phasma, too, has disappeared, you discover, and this hurts you more than you can say). “Come with me,” you order the stragglers. You find a ship, you go to the surface.

_We will find him. I will find him. I must._

*

You find him on the surface as the planet implodes.

“Sir? Over here!” a trooper shouts to you, and you stalk blindly to him through the forest, stepping through ash and debris. You are guided by his voice and the sickening relief that you feel. Snow whirls around you, falling thicker every minute. You are distantly aware of branches scratching your face, thorns gouging your hands and palms; your clothing snags, your boots grow filthy, and yet you notice none of it.  

“Is he alive?” you demand, pushing troopers out of the way.

“Looks to be, sir.”

He is a dark shape against the pure white snow on the ground, trees burnt and hacked-down around him. Blood pools from a wound in his side. His face is dirtied, slashed from forehead to cheek: you register abstractly that the cut has been cauterised and doesn’t bleed; _from a lightsaber, then_. His eyes are closed, and his own precious saber is nowhere to be found. Only the shallow rise and fall of his chest indicates that he has, somehow, survived.

Bile rises in your throat: for a moment you can only stare at Kylo Ren’s broken form. Your lungs feel suddenly like they are collapsing. “Help me take him,” you choke out, horribly fascinated by the gory cut marring the pallor of his cheeks. “And quickly!”

The planet’s core is caving in behind you, chunks of earth tumbling in to molten rock. You don’t have much time. You kneel at his side, lift the slack body with the help of two troopers. Together, the three of you stumble back to the waiting transport, careful not to jar him too much. Along the way, a feeble groan escapes his bluing lips, and you feel yourself breathe again.

_Thank you._

The transport takes off as soon as the ramp has been lifted. You bring him at once to the medbay, shouting orders at the droids and nurses there: “He’s been gravely wounded,” you cry, your voice frantic and alien in your ears. “His side — his face — the arm, as well —”

“We’ve got him now, sir,” says a young healer gently. “We’ll do the best we can.”

“You must,” you say, strangled. “You must.”

You feel yourself being taken from the medbay and to a small sleeping chamber. You are aware of hands, applying ointment to what you recognise, now, as dozens of stinging cuts and scrapes on the skin of your face and your hands; your torn and dirtied clothes are taken off your aching body, and you are injected with something that makes you feel heavy and light at the very same time. You feel fresh clothing against your skin — you are tucked between sheets with caution and care, and as you drift into blackness you feel fully warm for the first time in years.

Your last thought is of him.

*

In the morning you find fresh clothes folded on the back of a chair: not your uniform. You bathe, and don’t recognise yourself in the mirror: your face is scraped and bloodless; your hands tremble incessantly. There is a ringing in your ears and a deep insidious pain in your head. You don’t know who you are in civilian clothing.

You ignore your own pains and go at once to the medbay. His condition has not improved.

You pace. You are restless. You shout at the medical staff until they escort you once again from the room; and then you stalk the halls of the rest of the ship, which you learn quickly enough is taking you to Snoke. You don’t know how the pilots learned that this is where you were summoned, but you are grateful that they did. _I have a task to fulfil. I will bring him there alive._

*

Someone tells you that Ren killed his father, on Starkiller. It gives you a shock: you have never pictured him as the type to have a _father,_ a mother, a family — anyone. For as long as you’ve known him he has been alone.

You wonder, now, if this was part of his struggle: if the _light_ he felt inside him was connected to his family; if the girl Rey somehow reminded him, agitated him, forced him to remember. You wonder if the murder of his father somehow fixed this — as he no doubt hoped it would. You don’t think that it did.

 _I’ll ask him when he wakes,_ you tell yourself, and you know you never will.

*

The next two days pass in a blur, much the same. The wounds to your face and hands, though superficial, are ugly and slow to heal; against your fair skin the scabs stand out like fresh blood. Your head throbs constantly, your ears echo with the sounds of battle: you can’t sleep, you see again and again the image of Kylo’s bleeding form in the snow. You have never suffered from nightmares before.

*

On the third day there is a new general’s uniform folded over your chair. You put it on and you begin to feel human again. You make peace with the medbay staff and _ask,_ rather than demand, to be allowed to oversee Ren’s progress; and finally they grant you permission, warning you amply not to expect much.

“We don’t know when he’ll wake up,” is the simple explanation. You can hear the “if" they leave unsaid.

And so it comes about that you are left alone at his bedside, waiting for what seems an increasingly unlikely occurrence. You have foregone your gloves, you don't know why, and your hands are restless; you pick open scabs, tearing up your cuticles; you chew your nails to the quick, and your _head —_

A movement at your side. You open your eyes, take your hands from your temples: Ren — looking strange and young in a loose anonymous medical gown — is shifting in his bed, a groan escaping his chapped lips. You hardly dare to move: you fold your hands tightly together as if to stop yourself from reaching for him.

He opens his eyes and looks at you.

“We failed,” you blurt out. Your relief makes you stupid.

Ren’s deep voice is feeble. “I know,” he says huskily. He looks around, winces at the sterile whiteness of the room and the fluorescent lights overhead. “How did it end?”

You tell him quickly and matter-of-factly what happened: the rebels, the battle, your orders from Snoke — glossing over your race to the surface, the bleak horror of his bleeding body. You hesitate, and then add, fleetingly, “You’ve been unconscious for three days.” You don’t say what a nightmare they’ve been.

“You saved me,” he states.

“I had to.”

Ren frowns at you, tries to sit up: “No, you didn’t,” he says flatly.

You feel yourself flush, and all at once grow defensive, snapping bluntly “Snoke ordered me to. I told you.”

He studies your face. You lock your eyes on his, unwavering, hoping that now of all times he doesn’t try and read your thoughts. Slowly, he reaches one big clumsy hand up to his cheek, touches the ugly gash there.

“You’re hurt,” he notes.

You swallow. “It wasn’t easy to get you out alive.”

Ren’s voice is startlingly sincere when he thanks you.

You break eye contact at last, scoffing low in your throat. Your heart is pounding. “I was following orders, Kylo.” Your use of his first name surprises even you.

“All the same.”

You say nothing, and fear that in doing so you have said too much. The silence makes you dizzy.

He tells you suddenly that he couldn’t kill her.

“Rey?” you ask, jolted by the change of subject.

“Yes.” Ren adjusts his position, sits fully up. He looks, for a moment, like a prince holding court from his bed; for a moment you see again his former put-on air of majesty. And then a grimace flashes across his face, his hand flies to his bandaged side; and you suppress again the instinct to reach for him, to go to him and ease his pain. _I can’t._

He tells you softly that the light in him wouldn’t let him kill her, his eyes on yours all the while. You don’t look away; you can’t.

“I don’t know what to do.”

You have never heard him admit to a weakness. It shocks you. _He is not a prince,_ you realise at once; _he is not a knight. He is young and afraid; he is lost. He is tearing himself apart._

“Be careful, Ren,” you plead softly, finally. You want to say more; you don’t know where to begin.

The comlink in your pocket suddenly sounds. You start, and reach for it out of instinct: your presence is apparently required on the bridge. For the first time you resent your status as senior officer on this ship. You stand with a queer reluctance.

“I have to go.”

You stare down at Kylo Ren once more, and you are sorry. You swallow hard. You see his IV drip in the corner of your vision and turn to it gratefully: “More?” you ask him, and press the button before he can refuse.

“Thank you,” Kylo murmurs, and his dark eyes close slowly.

You linger at his bedside, studying his face as it relaxes and smooths. You have never seen him so at peace.

It occurs to you suddenly that you must start from the beginning now, you and all the rest. The First Order has been decimated, and it is up to you, the remnants, to resurrect it and begin anew. You will have another lifetime of work ahead of you, this you do not doubt — but, too, you will have a second chance.

You look at Kylo, and you wonder if he will give you one, too.

Before you lose your nerve you bend and press your lips to his. Your mouth is cold and his lips are warm.

Your comlink beeps insistently, urging you to hurry. You turn and leave in haste — you go to do your duty; you go to take control. You have never liked not knowing where you stand.

*

 

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, here's my [main blog](http://abernathae.tumblr.com) and (loud sigh) my [Star Wars/Kylux blog.](http://huxes.tumblr.com) :)


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